


The chosen vehicle of all ambiguities

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Conversations, Deleted Scenes, F/M, Season/Series 01, Shopping, Slow Burn, Welcome, intimations of something more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: An arrival, marked.





	The chosen vehicle of all ambiguities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/gifts).



“Welcome home, Baroness,” Jed said, sitting on the wooden bench by the door. He sounded more entertained than critical of her unprepossessing arrival, her limp ribbons drooping beneath her chin, the rude basket Matron had given her rough against Mary’s grey shawl.

She knew she shouldn’t think of him that way, _Jed_ , as if he were her brother’s friend or a second cousin. Or a man, the rare man, who’d court a blue-stocking. He ought to be Dr. Foster in every situation, even within her mind which was still busy with the long day, the full morning of assisting at procedures and the hours she’d just spent ransacking the town for supplies they desperately needed. She’d shaken her head at the scanty choices and fished out her own purse when the allotment from the Army was exhausted; there must be meal and sorghum, blackstrap molasses, and she could think of a half-dozen ways the clusters of herbs might be used. Her basket was heavy but her heart was light, a curious sensation she’d forgotten, and she was not equal to the task of estimating how much was due to the appraising, amused look in Jed Foster’s dark eyes. His wife needed to turn his collar and brush his frock-coat, Mary thought before she could stop herself.

“Do you know, that’s the first time anyone’s said that to me,” Mary replied, her spoken words mimicking her unbound, irrepressible thoughts. She bit her lip at her impetuous nature, her failure to remember where she was and who she was with.

“No one’s ever welcomed you home before? What sort of people do you come from—are the natives of New Hampshire wordless cretins? Granite-faced monoliths without any predilection for propriety?” Jed said, clearly enjoying himself as she couldn’t help doing. He often spoke this way, playful elaborations that left Hale confused and Matron impatiently tapping her foot. Mary had been startled at first but had found these moods of his to be like slivers of sunshine falling through clouds, through the dappled woods outside Manchester.

“I meant here. At Mansion House. No one’s welcomed me here, let alone called it home,” Mary said. It wasn’t quite true, she thought as soon as she said it—Mr. Diggs had welcomed her in every way except with the words and where she’d be without his unobtrusive help and gentle corrections, she couldn’t say, but she suspected it would be half-way to Hell or back at the train station, ticket in hand.

“How remiss of us! Though, I shouldn’t care to be hanged for Hale’s crimes in any circumstance. I shall only take responsibility for myself. Welcome home, Nurse Mary,” he said, beginning with that same chaffing tone and then ending quite differently, quite warm, beyond any courtesy. His eyes were so dark and his beard, but she couldn’t mistake the light in his gaze and the sincere smile that curved his lips.

“I know my title doesn’t suit the hospital, but don’t you think ‘Nurse Mary’ is too informal? Dr. Foster?” she said, setting the basket down at her feet.

“A rose by any other name, you know,” he said, making the allusion without any explanation, correctly assuming she’d know the provenance, the reference and the significance. 

“Welcome home and roses! This is a day to mark down in the books,” Mary cried lightly. Jed stood, took up the heavy basket, grimacing at its weight, and gestured that they walk together down the hall to bring Matron the supplies. He knew enough not to trust Bullen.

“A suspicion confirmed then—that you spend your evenings making note of all this. In a proper little lady’s day-book, bound in calf-leather, stamped with gold,” he said.

“I only use foolscap—and I turn every page,” Mary countered.

“I shan’t keep you from that then,” he said with a laugh. A true laugh, without any hint of acid or rue. The most pleasant sound she could imagine; one she’d never envisioned sitting by Gustav’s sick-bed, outside Miss Dix’s chamber, in the cloud of cinders of the train. A blessing unexpected and treasured all the more.

**Author's Note:**

> A little gift-fic to welcome a new writer to the Mercy Street fandom! The title is from Herman Melville-- the complete line is "A smile is the chosen vehicle of all ambiguities."


End file.
